Say Goodbye (Sacramento Series, The Book 3)
Say Goodbye: Chapter 13

We’re looking for Sergeant Farley,” Croft said when they got to Minnie Ellis’s home in Yuba City. She held out her badge, as did Tom. “Special Agents Croft and Hunter.”

The uniformed officer standing guard at the front door frowned. “Hunter? Tom Hunter?”

Tom knew that the cop had recognized him from his pro days, but Croft seemed oblivious. “Farley is expecting us,” she said tartly.

The cop blushed. “It’s just that I—Never mind. Here are your booties. Follow me.”

Slipping the booties over his shoes, Tom gave the man a smile. “She’s not a basketball fan.”

The cop laughed. “Well, I am. Miss seeing you on the court. Didn’t know you were . . .” He gestured at Tom’s badge. “You know.”

Tom lips twitched. “I know.”

Croft finished putting on her booties with a frown. “Really? You have fans?”

“Only a few,” Tom said.

“A few,” the officer agreed with sham gravity.

She sighed. “Officer, can you just take us to Sergeant Farley?”

“Of course.” He led them to a bedroom, where Farley stood next to a CSU tech standing on a stepladder, pulling something from the ceiling. “Sergeant Farley? The FBI is here, sir.”

Farley turned, his expression sour. “Hunter and Croft, right? Okay, this went from bad to worse. The victim, Minnie Ellis, was found in her bed by her friend, like I told you. I’ll show you the rush job the killer did to repair the broken door frame. Might have passed muster if the friend hadn’t made a fuss. ME found a needle prick in the victim’s arm.” He touched the inside of his elbow. “They’ll test for the usual heart-stoppers. Again, it might have passed muster as natural causes without the friend’s testimony. And now this.” He pointed to the CSU tech.

Tom walked as close as he could without knocking the tech off the ladder. The tech held a small wireless camera. “Was it active?”

“Still is. We might be able to trace the signal. Or not,” he added when the red light on the device suddenly died. “Looks like we were made. Dammit.”

“Dammit indeed,” Tom agreed with a scowl. “Maybe we can get prints off it.”

“Maybe,” the tech said, huffing in frustration. “There are cameras in every room. Including the bathroom.”

“Who spies on a seventy-five-year-old woman?” Croft asked. “In her bathroom?”

“Good question,” Farley said. “Somebody’s been watching her. From the dust on the camera lens, it’s likely been for a while. We don’t know who planted them, but the neighbor is a suspect in her death based on her friend’s statement, like I told you on the phone. We went to question him, which was when we found his trash.”

“This guy had a sniper rifle on that rooftop yesterday,” Tom said. “He could have shot Mrs. Ellis, but he must not have wanted the attention, so he tried to make it look like a natural death.”

“That’s what I think.” Farley checked his phone. “Excellent. We got a warrant for the house next door. I assume you want to join me?”

“You assume correctly,” Croft said. “Lead the way.”

The four of them moved through the house toward the kitchen. All of the walls were covered in photographs. Mrs. Ellis had a lot of grandchildren who seemed to love her. Plastic containers of cookies sat piled on the kitchen table along with several pies, all with little name tags.

“She loved with food,” Tom said. “Has her family been notified?”

“Her son,” Farley replied. “He was supposed to get one of the pies. The other says ‘Johnny.’ Her friend says that’s the neighbor’s name.”

“She made him a pie and he killed her?” Croft demanded incredulously. “What an asshole.”

Tom barked out a surprised laugh. “Well, yeah. But we already knew that,” he said, joining Farley at the kitchen door. The door frame had been spackled and sanded. It wasn’t an awful job. “I might not have noticed that if I wasn’t looking.”

“Which was his intent.” Farley shot an amused glance at Croft. “Him being an asshole.”

Croft wasn’t offended. “My opinion stands. Let’s check the house next door. Who owns it?”

Farley checked his notes. “Mr. Johnny Derby. My men are waiting on me to open Mr. Derby’s door. Garvin, you’re to continue securing the crime scene.”

The officer who’d recognized Tom seemed disappointed, but didn’t argue. “Yes, sir.”

DJ Belmont’s house was similar to the one they’d just left, except for the broken front door. The two officers who’d busted it were rubbing their shoulders. “Ready for you, sir.”

“He owns a house,” Croft muttered under her breath as they walked through the kitchen.

“He was the only one to leave—” Tom stopped himself from saying Eden. “Looks like he kept a separate life.” But sterile. There were no photographs or any personal belongings.

“But why?” Croft pressed. “Did he just flop here on the weekends?”

“Maybe.” On a hunch, he checked the corners of the ceiling. Yep. That was what he’d thought. “But look at that.” He pointed to a camera, similar to the one they’d found in Mrs. Ellis’s house.

“Why?” Farley asked. “Was someone spying on him while he was spying on the old lady?”

Tom remembered what Dixie Serratt had said about DJ’s boss. “Or his boss distrusts him.”

Farley gave him a sharp look. “Care to explain that?”

Croft had made the connection. “We have information that the suspect has a Chicos tattoo.”

Farley blinked. “Oh shit. That drug gang is here? In my town?”

“So it would seem,” Croft said. “And his boss is not a kind individual. I’d have your Latent team dust every damn inch of this place. You might get a lucky hit.”

“I will,” Farley said grimly. “Thank you. Let’s check out his bedroom.”

The first bedroom had a queen-sized bed that appeared to have been slept in recently, but the closets were empty.

Like Liza’s closets. Tom’s chest squeezed hard. Dammit. Not now. He forced thoughts of Liza from his mind. Focus on your damn job, Hunter.

Tom took the second bedroom, which appeared to have been used as an office. There were three dust-free areas on the desk. Two were about the size of a printer, and the third might have been a laptop. “He took his electronics with him.” He sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

Croft inhaled through her nose, then frowned. “Waffles?”

“It’s the 3D filament,” Tom told her. “It’s derived from corn. Smells like waffles.”

“So your theory about the license plate holds water.” She smiled at him. “Nice job, rookie.”

“It also means that he was running the 3D printer recently. Maybe last night. He’s probably made new license plates.”

“I figured he would,” Croft said grimly. “The BOLO on the box truck is worthless now.”

“Sergeant Farley.” One of the uniformed officers was standing in the doorway. “There’s something in the basement you want to see. Or not see. Maybe just smell.”

Tom had followed Farley one step down the basement stairs when he smelled it. “Whoa.” The skunky odor of weed became stronger as he descended the stairs. But the basement was empty. “They moved it out.”

“It was on pallets,” the officer said, shining his flashlight at the disturbances in the dust. “Looks like they had a significant stash, even if the pallets were only stacked one high. But there are scrapes along the walls where a second level of pallets might have sat.”

“Good work,” Farley said. His phone buzzed. “Excuse me. I need to take this. It’s my clerk.” He walked toward a door to the side yard, checking his signal. “Yes?” he answered, then listened. “You got a warrant started?” Then he smiled. “Good job. Yes, I’ll bring you a milkshake. Yes, it’ll be chocolate.” He ended the call and returned to Tom and Croft. “The house next door is owned by an Oakland couple. Their tenant’s name also is Mr. Derby, and I have a very smart clerk. When she saw the name, she immediately started another warrant.”

“Then she deserves a chocolate milkshake,” Tom said.

“There’s a path between the house next door and this one,” Farley explained as they ascended the stairs. “Not a paved path, but one beaten into the dirt. Lots of foot traffic between this place and the one next door. Like boxes being carried, maybe?”

“You’re thinking a grow house?” Croft asked.

Farley nodded. “I was afraid this would sprout back up. You Feds took out so many of those grow houses a few years back. The part of me that still believes in the Easter Bunny hoped that would be the end of it.”

His officers broke through this door as they had the last one, and Tom whistled from the threshold, because there was no real floor to walk on. “That is a lot of weed.”

The floors were covered in dirt, and marijuana plants grew in neat rows. A watering system hung from the ceiling and grow lights were positioned at regular intervals, bolted to the walls. Extension cords ran every which direction.

Crouching down, Farley pulled a leaf from the plant closest to the door. “Ready to harvest.” He stood up, dusting the dirt from his hands. “Not a bad haul.”

Croft stuck her head in the open door. “That’s a lot of pot to remove. This house is trashed. Let’s check it out. He might have left something behind.”

But he hadn’t. There were no beds or clothing in the bedrooms, no food in the kitchen, no appliances of any kind. There wasn’t even a refrigerator, all the power going instead to the grow lamps.

“We’re heading back to the field office,” Croft said once they’d searched the small house. “Thank you for getting in touch with us, Sergeant Farley. If your team turns anything up, please let us know.”

“Of course.” Farley looked across the lawn at Officer Garvin, the uniform left behind to protect the crime scene. “I think my officer really wants to talk to you, Agent Hunter. He’ll probably ask for an autograph, just to prepare you.”

Croft frowned. “Wait. You knew who Agent Hunter was, too?”

“Before you got here,” Farley said. “I looked you two up. Not much on you, Agent Croft—no offense—but this guy? His name gets a shit ton of hits.”

“Wonderful,” Croft grumbled. “Although I have to say, he’s pretty humble to be so famous.”

“Thank you,” Tom said graciously. “I’ll meet you at the car.” He ambled over to where Officer Garvin stood nervously. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

Garvin exhaled nervously. “My kid’s birthday’s next week. He’s a huge fan. Can’t rip him away from the TV when a game is on. Knows all the stats. He’d love an autograph from you.”

Tom gave the man his card. “E-mail me your address. I’ve got gear just cluttering a closet. I may have a few basketballs. Won’t be a game ball, but hopefully he’ll still like it.”

“Thank you,” Garvin said. “He will be over the moon.”

Tom shook the very happy father’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Have a great day.”

When he got back to the SUV, Croft was rolling her eyes. “Does this happen often?”

“Not really. As time passes it’ll be even less frequent.” He settled into his seat and started the engine but didn’t drive away.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“DJ Belmont’s houses,” Tom said. “If this was where he slept when he came down from Eden, where will he sleep now? He has to know that he can’t come back here.”

“He did clean his place out,” Croft agreed. “We can send his photo to hotels and B and Bs around Sacramento. He might also be staying at the rehab center with Pastor.”

“Which is why I want eyes and ears inside the place. If he’s there with Pastor and they talk, we need to know what they’re saying.”

“I agree and so does Raeburn. He’s working on that. So why are you still frowning?”

“He has to know that we’re looking for him. He might not know that we got his photo from the security cameras from yesterday’s office building, but he has to know that we have his description from Mercy, Gideon, and Amos. If I were him, I wouldn’t stay at a hotel.”

Her smile was encouraging. “Where would you stay, Tom?”

“Somewhere I trusted. Where I’d be safe.”

“Friends, maybe? I’d say family, but he doesn’t have any. His father’s dead.”

That was what had been bothering him. “But his father’s family isn’t.” Tom searched the files on his phone for the folder on Eden. “We checked out Waylon Belmont’s family weeks ago. He was from Benicia and his mother and his brother still live there. The brother, Merle, was the one who filed the missing-person report on DJ Belmont when he disappeared when he was a little boy.”

“When he was taken to Eden.”

Tom nodded. “I believe so. The timeline matches up, anyway. He disappeared with his mother when he was four years old, a few months after Eden was started. I called Waylon’s brother, but he hadn’t heard from DJ and had no idea where he’d be. He and his wife thought DJ had to be dead after so much time. At the time I hoped he was dead.”

“Maybe we should pay them a visit now that we know he’s not dead, if for no other reason than to warn them.”

“I think so too, but first . . .” He found the paragraph in his Eden file and passed his phone to Croft. “The Belmonts own a house that they rent out, also in Benicia. It’s a long shot, but . . .” He shrugged. “It’s only an hour away, so not too much time lost if it’s a bust.”

Croft tapped her finger against her chin as she considered it. “It is a long shot. I think it’s more likely that he’d stay with a gang member around here. Let’s check with the local PD and see if they can tell us where Chicos members hang out. If we come up dry, we’ll drive out to Benicia. And if we come up dry there, we can cross it off as where he isn’t. Sound good?”

Tom put the SUV into gear. “Sounds good to me.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 2:00 P.M.

DJ woke abruptly, panicking for the second it took him to remember where he was.

Nelson Smythe. The man was dead in his own freezer and this was his spare room.

DJ lay there for another minute while his racing pulse slowed. Then for another few minutes while he appreciated the softness of the bed. He’d thought that the bed in his Yuba City house was comfortable, especially compared to the hard pallet on the harder cave floor.

This bed, though . . . It was like a goddamn cloud. Nothing hurt, he realized. His back wasn’t sore and his arm wasn’t throbbing. He tested his shoulder joint gingerly. It was still stiff. Still sore. But the overwhelming pain was gone.

He didn’t care what Pastor said. He was getting himself a mattress like this when he returned to Eden. He didn’t care if it was vanity or any of the shit Pastor spewed.

DJ found his phone and tapped the screen, only to have his pulse start racing again. “No way.” There was no way that it was two o’clock in the fucking afternoon. He’d only meant to rest for an hour. He’d set an alarm on his phone, for God’s sake. Hadn’t he?

He opened the clock app and blew out a frustrated breath. He’d set the alarm for eleven p.m., not a.m. Goddammit. Then he spied the light pink camera on the window and remembered why he’d come here to begin with.

“Shit.” He lurched from the bed, making his arm throb again. “Fuck.” He’d set his alarm for one hour. One hour. He’d wanted to check the camera feed, to make sure it was recording properly. If it wasn’t, he’d only have lost an hour.

Now he’d lost four.

Snarling under his breath, he connected the camera to his laptop. It downloaded, thankfully, so it had recorded something. He reset the camera on the windowsill and returned to the soft bed to review the footage.

Nothing happened for the longest time, and then a UPS truck passed by. A few minutes later the same UPS truck came from the opposite direction. DJ paused the video and zoomed in on the driver. Nobody he knew. Certainly not Mercy.

Unless she was hiding in the back of the truck. It’s what I would do.

He noted the license plate and restarted the video. After ten minutes he grew impatient and began fast-forwarding. At about sixty minutes, a pickup truck passed by the camera’s lens.

DJ paused the video. The truck looked familiar. It was a black Ford F-150 and he’d owned one similar to it—just a lot older. His had belonged to his father and was a few years old when he’d inherited it, seventeen years ago. Waylon had bought a similar one new in ’89, days before he and Pastor had headed up to the first Eden site. DJ had helped his father work on it.

When the truck had worn out, Waylon had wanted a new one, but Pastor had insisted he buy the same make and model—and not new. He’d been insistent that as much around the compound stay the same as was possible.

It was Pastor’s way of trapping time in a bubble. If the congregation got dulled to the passage of time, they would grow more compliant.

The concept had made sense to DJ. He’d planned to replace his truck and was going to get another used black Ford F-150.

Except his truck had been stolen by that bastard Amos Terrill. The man had stowed away in the back and, when DJ was occupied, had driven away in it.

DJ’s temper boiled. He hadn’t been aiming at Amos that day a month ago. He’d meant to shoot Mercy Callahan, but Amos had come running from the woods to throw himself on top of her. The bullet had gotten Amos in the neck and DJ had spent the last month satisfied that the man had bled out.

DJ paused the video. This F-150 was brand spanking new. The chrome still shone and there wasn’t a trace of rust. Slightly envious, he noted its license plate, then zoomed in. And—

“Motherfucker,” he hissed. “What the fuck? What is he doing here?”

It was Amos. Amos Terrill. It was just a glimpse, less than a half second of video, but DJ would know that bearded aw-shucks face anywhere.

The fucker was alive. And he’d had the nerve to get a truck just like the one he’d stolen.

DJ’s fists clenched and he had to draw a breath to calm himself, because he was angry. Furious. And tempted to throw his laptop into the wall.

But you can’t kill him if you can’t track him. And you can’t track him without your laptop.

When he’d sufficiently calmed, he examined the truck’s interior. There was someone in the back seat, but the windows were covered by shades, too dark for him to see any details other than the fact that they were small.

That could be Abigail, he thought, encouraged. When he found out where Amos was living, he could kill him, grab the kid, and deliver her to Eden. That would make Pastor happy, at least.

Hitting play, he shrank the video screen so that it was side by side with the browser tab he opened next. He could keep an eye on the video as he ran a search on Amos’s license plates.

He stole a lot of the information he came across, but he paid for the search tools that he used. They were more reliable and, as he’d found out the hard way, could make a critical difference when approaching a new customer or supplier.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered when the results flashed on his screen. The truck had been bought by a corporation. That was going to take a little more time.

He’d maximized the video screen, focusing again on the traffic up and down the street, when his sat phone buzzed. Startled, he jumped a little, then groaned. It was Kowalski.

“Where the fuck are you?” Kowalski shouted when DJ hit accept.

DJ bit back a shout of his own. “Why?” he asked calmly. “Why are you shouting?”

“You are on the fucking news! Your stupid face is on the fucking news! I told you to make it look like natural causes!”

Shit. Mrs. Ellis. DJ hadn’t believed the cops would buy it.

“I did everything you said,” he replied, keeping the defensive challenge from his tone.

“No,” Kowalski said coldly, and his stone-cold quiet was far scarier than his screaming had been. “You did only a third of what I told you to do, and now her house is crawling with cops.”

“I killed her. I didn’t leave a trace. I even fixed her fucking door after I broke in. What didn’t I do?” DJ demanded, exasperated.

“The friend. Remember her? The one the old lady called?”

DJ’s blood chilled and his gut clenched. Fuck. “I got her number from the caller ID on old lady Ellis’s phone.”

“But you did not kill her.”

No, I didn’t. How had he forgotten? Pastor. That was how he’d forgotten. He’d gotten the call from Coleen and he’d immediately packed up and headed to Eden. “Shit,” he whispered.

“Yeah. Shit. You are an idiot. She discovered the old woman’s body. I thought for a while that the police would search her place and let it go, but no. She told them you were antisocial and that the old lady feared you, so they brought in a forensics team, who found the cameras that you didn’t cover up. Now they know someone was watching her.”

DJ swallowed hard. Dammit. “I—” His heart was pounding hard. Damn you, Pastor. And damn me for being at your beck and call. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

“You think?” Kowalski asked coldly. “The cops believed the old bitch’s friend and now your fucking face is on every TV and computer screen. Way to go, kid.”

DJ bristled. He was so damn tired of being browbeaten. He was also annoyed, because he’d hoped yesterday’s office building hadn’t had cameras. He couldn’t fix that now.

But Kowalski was right about the Ellis situation. He needed to fix that. “What can I do?”

Kowalski sighed. “I already took care of it. Where are you right now?”

“At a hotel,” he lied. “My father is in the rehab center and I wanted to stay close for the first day or two.”

“Okay.” Kowalski sounded weary now. “You owe me, though. I had to pull strings to get your name cleared.”

“It’s cleared?” DJ asked, stunned.

“It will be. I can’t have one of my top men hiding from the cops. If you’re going to be in the top tier of my organization, you have to be able to rub elbows with the politicians.”

DJ frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’d planned to promote you, asshole,” Kowalski snapped. “Jesus, maybe I should reconsider. You’re sounding stupid today.”

“Just tired,” DJ said. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well. I need you to run an errand for me.”

“What kind of errand?” DJ asked warily.

“The kind I need run,” Kowalski snapped again. “Pick up a package for me. I’ll text you the address. When you’ve picked it up, let me know and I’ll send you my address. Come to the house. We’ll talk about your promotion.”

DJ blinked. He’d never been invited to Kowalski’s home before. He didn’t even know where the man lived. “Of course. Send me the package pickup address.”

“Don’t disappoint me again, boy. I’m giving you another chance. Do not fuck it up.”

I’m not your damn boy. “I won’t,” DJ promised, swallowing back his irritation.

A minute later, an address in Stockton popped up in a text. Along with: Don’t fuck it up.

“Asshole,” DJ muttered. But he couldn’t really blame Kowalski for being angry. He had dropped the ball with Mrs. Ellis. Good thing I cleaned out the house.

The cops could search all they wanted. They weren’t going to replace anything of his.

MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 2:50 P.M.

“This is the place,” Daisy said from the back seat. “Sal Ibarra a.k.a. Sergio Iglesias’s tattoo parlor. Made it with ten minutes to spare.”

Gideon was searching the street, gun in hand, as it had been for the entire trip. “What’s your plan again?”

Liza hadn’t been pleased when Daisy’s VW Beetle had pulled into Irina’s garage with Gideon’s Chevy Suburban following behind her, but he’d promised he would only be involved in a civilian role and that he wouldn’t frighten the tattoo artist by questioning him. He was there as protection, firmly stating that while he couldn’t stop Liza from driving to Monterey on her own, Daisy would not be joining her without him.

The more Liza had considered it, though, the more relieved she’d been. She hadn’t been afraid for herself, but she’d never be able to live with herself if Daisy somehow got hurt. So Liza had driven Gideon’s Suburban while Gideon had ridden shotgun, making sure that no one had followed them. Daisy sat in the back with her rifle ready.

They had Liza’s back and she was grateful. “I was going to ask him about the person he tattooed with the Eden design and hope he doesn’t run from me, too.”

“And then you’re going to ask him to tattoo you,” Gideon said flatly. “I still think this is a bad plan.”

“Which part?” Liza asked. “The part where I ask him about the Eden tattoo, or getting a tattoo?” She’d told them about wanting the tattoo before they’d left Irina’s house, because that would add a few hours to their trip.

“Both parts.” Gideon shook his head. “Why are you getting a tattoo today? From this guy?”

“Because Liza is a nice person,” Daisy answered for her. “She thinks he needs the money because he left his old tattoo business behind when the Feds scared him to death. And he’s got a little kid, so they probably need the cash.”

“I guess so,” Gideon said begrudgingly. “But why do you want a tattoo today?”

Liza pulled her sketch from her handbag and handed it to him. “This is what I want done.”

“It’s a memorial tattoo,” he said quietly, all irritation gone from his voice.

Liza thought of Fritz, of how he’d given his life for her. “For the friends I lost. And . . .” She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And for my husband, who died saving my life.”

The car went utterly silent.

Then Daisy whistled. “You are a vault, Liza Barkley. I never would have guessed that you kept a secret like that. Now I know who to tell if I ever have a burning secret I can’t tell Gideon.”

“Hey,” Gideon protested.

“Like a birthday present,” Daisy told him, then turned to Liza, her eyes gone soft. “If you ever want to talk about him, I’m always ready to listen. If you don’t, that’s okay, too.”

“Thank you. I might take you up on it.” Liza was surprised to realize that she just might. Telling them hadn’t been as hard as she’d anticipated. “I have nightmares about them. Last night’s was really bad. I’m hoping that carrying them on my back will help me lay them to rest.”

Gideon returned the sketch to Liza with a gentle smile. “I understand now. Do you want me to come in with you or wait out here?”

Liza folded the sketch and put it back in her bag. “I think I should talk to him first and feel him out. You might need to stay out here the whole time.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I can watch for trouble better from out here. What about Daisy?”

Liza turned to the back seat. “What do you think, Daisy?”

Daisy grimaced. “Maybe I should wait here with Gideon until you calm him down. Text me when I should come in. I’ve got e-mail to catch up on, so it’s fine.”

“Good luck,” Gideon said sincerely. “Wave if you need us.”

Liza hoped that she wouldn’t. Please let Sergio know something. Please let him tell me.

Sergio stood behind the counter, welcoming her with a wide smile. He appeared to be in his midthirties. “I’m Sal Ibarra.” His new name. “You must be Liza?”

“I am,” Liza said.

“Please come in.” He motioned her to a sitting area.

“Can we talk a little first?” Liza asked when they were seated.

“Of course. You’ve booked out my afternoon, so you must know what you want.”

“I do.” She patted her handbag. “I made a sketch.” She drew a breath. Forward, soldier. Just do it. “I’m hoping you’ll still be willing to tattoo me after we’ve talked.”

Fear flickered in his eyes. “What is this?”

“Nothing bad,” Liza assured him. “I’m not law enforcement. I’m a normal person.”

Sergio edged forward, looking like he was preparing to bolt. “A normal person,” he repeated.

“Well, I served in the army,” Liza amended. “But I’m not a cop and I’m not FBI or ICE. I wanted to talk to you about a tattoo you did.” From her handbag, she pulled a copy of the Eden tattoo that he’d posted on his old Instagram account. “This one.”

Sergio lurched to his feet. “No. Please go. The last time someone talked to me about this, the FBI came. I am not a criminal.”

Liza slowly rose, her hands out in an attempt to calm him. “Mr. Iglesias, please, just hear me out. I don’t believe you are a criminal. I think you’re a father trying to support his family. But my family is in danger right now and I really hope you can help us.”

Sergio still looked ready to run. “Why? Why are you interested in this tattoo? It’s old.”

“Because it’s a symbol of slavery. My friend was forced to wear a locket with this design on a chain around her neck. A dog chain. Nothing pretty. Her brother was forced to get the tattoo. Both were assaulted. Both nearly died, but they were able to escape. Now they’re in danger because the people who hurt them don’t want them to talk.”

“I’m so sorry.” Sergio sank back down to the sofa and seemed to deflate. “But I don’t want any trouble.”

“You won’t get any trouble from us,” Liza promised.

Sergio tensed again. “Us?” He looked through the window to Gideon’s Suburban parked on the curb. “Who is ‘us’?”

“The people who don’t want my friends to talk tried to shoot me a few days ago, so I brought protection. We don’t care if you’re undocumented or not. I swear.”

Sergio’s jaw tightened. “But I’m not undocumented. I’ve had a green card since I was a boy, just arriving from El Salvador with my parents. But a customer of mine didn’t like the tattoo I gave her, even though she signed off on the design before I started. She threatened to have me deported. I told her I had a green card, but she said that her father was with ICE and that it wouldn’t matter. Men claiming to be ICE agents came to my old studio and threatened me. I don’t know if they were ICE or not, but they scared me. And they scared my wife.”

Liza ignored the temper that fizzled under her skin on his behalf. “The FBI showing up at your old studio must have been terrifying.”

“It was. My wife, my child . . . they were very afraid. Not for themselves. My wife is a citizen. She was born in Florida. But she was afraid for me, afraid I’d be deported.”

“I’m so sorry.” Liza considered hiding Gideon’s profession, but she was asking this man to trust her. She couldn’t lie to him. “Full disclosure: Daisy Dawson came with me. She’s the one who contacted you before. She’s waiting in the truck with her boyfriend, Gideon. He’s the friend who was forced to get the tattoo as a young man. He’s also with the FBI, but he’s here as a civilian,” she rushed to add, because Sergio looked like he’d run again. “He’s not on duty or here in any official capacity. He will not report you, but he wouldn’t let Daisy come without him. You know, because the people who hurt them are dangerous.”

“Is Daisy FBI?” Sergio asked suspiciously.

Liza had to chuckle. “No. I don’t think that the FBI would survive Daisy. Can she come in?”

“What about the FBI agent?” Sergio asked nervously.

“The off-duty FBI agent is going to stay outside,” Liza replied. “Partly out of respect for you and partly to make sure that the people who want to hurt our family don’t catch us unaware. They didn’t follow us here, so you’re safe. But Gideon is super careful about our safety.”

Sergio drew a breath. “Yes, Miss Dawson may come in.”

“I’ll let her know.” Liza sent a text, then withdrew her sketch from her handbag. “So you don’t worry about me blocking out your afternoon, I really do want a tattoo. I wasn’t being deceitful. I loved the detail you achieved on the angel feathers on the tattoo we’re asking about.”

Sergio studied her sketch. “A memorial tattoo?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “For people who were my family over there.”

“I can do this,” he said. “When we are finished talking, I will work up a design. When you are satisfied, we can begin. You will probably need a second session. Maybe a third.”

“I figured as much. I thought maybe you could just outline it today.”

His lips curved. “Not your first tattoo, I take it?”

“No. Not even my first memorial tattoo.”

He sobered. “Then you have known much loss.”

She was saved a reply by Daisy’s entrance. Daisy was her typical self, striding forward, hand outstretched. “Sergio. So nice to meet you in person. I’m Daisy.”

“Please, sit. The studio is empty, so no one will hear us talking here. Shall we begin?”